The Man with the Eye
It was cold. It was the one thing that struck me odd about the place. Not that being cold was a bad thing, or something I resented, but it was... odd. Out of place. In a city like Varrock, the last thing you think about is the weather. I remember, of all the things about that night, I remember the frosty weather. It started in the Blue Moon inn. I was a traveler at the time, roaming from place to place, in search of adventure. It was dark outside, the inn’s lights eerily lighting the cobble street. I was sitting in a chair near the far left of the bar, the candles brightening the inside of the inn. Unfortunately, I wasn’t the only person here tonight. I band of guards had become intoxicated, and were making a ruckus. My hand was a little easier on the hilt of the short iron sword I used in my travels that night. They were drunk, and no one had the power to tell them to get out. We were all in here trying to get a spot of mead on our journeys, and these hooligans couldn’t shut up. As an adventurer, I should have put a stop to it. But I didn’t; I sat in the corner, nursing a glass of beer, head down. Out of nowhere, he showed up. A loud crash was heard, which stopped the inebriated guards in their tracks. The inn’s doors shuddered, and then opened in a soft, sinister-like way, the opening of some vile mouth. And there, in the Cold, stood a man. A stranger. He was wearing a standard issue cloak, the insignia of some foreign legion embroidered on the shoulder. The cloak covered a set of cyan armor. His hands and feet were covered with leather armor. A wicked looking hatchet was tied to his belt, and on his left was a long sword made of the same material. His hood was up, so no one could see his face. He was someone you didn’t mess with. The inn had become quiet. Nobody wanted to pick a fight with this new stranger, even the guards weren’t drunk enough to stop this guy. Or so I thought. The watch guard was a big man. Actually, he was a huge man. He was a head taller than the stranger, who just stared straight through him. Words were exchanged, and five seconds later there was one more vanguard lying in the streets. The stranger continued to walk, and sat down at my table. I was nervous. I mean, this guy just threw a guard through a window in less than a second. He sat across from me, his hood still over his face. I was itching my hand toward my sword. “Don’t bother, if I wanted you dead, then you would be on the street with him,” he whispered, his voice soft and hoarse coming from the folds of his hood. I stopped and said the first thing that came to mind. “Care for a drink?” He moved his head up, and chuckled. “Moonlight mead,” he said, a bit louder this time. I racked my brain about his choice of drink as I called the bartender over. Moonlight Mead!? Wasn’t that what… no… could he be a werewolf!? I gulped, and he probably heard it. “I’m no werewolf,” he whispered to me, which only brought another concern to my wits. Oh Saradomin, now he can read minds! I sat back down, and he drank the foul smelling drink. I waited. He sat there for a while, not talking. It was getting late, and the bartender started to put out the lights that illuminated the street. The stranger began to stand. “Thanks for the drink,” he said, the loudest he had been all evening. “Wait, what?” I stammered, “That’s it, you take my money and leave?” He turned to me side on, and I saw his military insignia right on. It was a white, ornate eye, the pupil huge, and staring right at me. I involuntarily shivered. The stranger stopped, as if he was thinking, and shrugged. “I don’t know, what do you want for your cheap mead and your silent hospitality?” He looked at the ground, and then looked at me. Or he might have looked at me. I felt like I was talking to a statue, the hood over his face keeping him mysterious and, well, untrustworthy. “Okay, kid, one piece of advice.” He sat back down and pulled out a pack of cards. He laid six or seven on the table facedown. “Pick a card, any card,” he told me. I slowly sat down. What is he playing at? I turned over the second one. It was the ace of spades, the same eye insignia over the shape. The stranger stood up again. “Keep it; he’ll want it,” he whispered to me, even softer than usual, “I’ll see you again.” And he strode off, into the cold. The cold was what caught my eye. He was in and out, like a fish out of water. Did it mean anything? The Cold, the unknowing Cold. And he was off again. Excerpt from the journal of Corporal Cahcar, from the archives. It was the only mention I could find of the Silver Eye. The Church of Saradomin will be pleased we found at least a shard of evidence. Category:Short Stories